Truth or Dare
by B A Cucumber
Summary: Our boys have to spend one night in a closet. One night? Yeah, doesn't sound long, but hey, who's Sherlock if he didn't get bored. Hilarity ensues, and I just decided to tell this backwards. It's the same thing in reverse. And no: I do not own "Sherlock" nor the AC Doyle Holmes. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 6 - Out of the Closet

**Sunday, 1:03 AM**

"Alright," concluded DCI Lestrade and marched toward the narrow door leading to the hidden passage. _Let's see what our witnesses have to say about this_. The man sighed inwardly. Sherlock would probably jump out of the closet and shout deductions at them, spinning webs of eloquent chains of reasoning around their heads. _Lord help them_. At least, this case was closed and in no time he would be able to go home. _To the wife and kids_.

Lestrade unlocked the door and fumbled for the light switch, ignoring a petulant "oy" from below. Looking back at the killer, he told Sherlock and John to come out before turning to them, his face falling into a bemused frown.

"What the _**hell**_?" the experienced officer looked from a flushed doctor in red underpants to a naked detective half-spreading his absurdly long legs in what could only be construed as an obscene manner.

Lestrade closed the door behind himself and tried not to panic, "What _**is**_ this?"

"What does it look like?" Sherlock smirked. _Oh no_.

John buried his head in his hands, "_Sherlock_! **No**, this really isn't-"

Lestrade held the detective's predatory stare and tapped his foot.

"We got _**bored**_!" Sherlock complained, exasperated, "We've spent _**ages**_ in this closet! So what did you _**expect**_ us to do? Sit _**still**_? You _**know**_ me!"

"So what _did_ you do?" Lestrade dreaded the answer which was so obvious.

"Nothing," John said quickly, and from the corner of his eye, the DCI could see the shorter man redress.

"_Sherlock_?"

The young man rolled his eyes and pulled his legs into a more acceptable position, "Nothing."

"_**Nothing**_?" echoed Lestrade.

"That's what we said," Sherlock was losing his temper, "well obviously, we got drinking. And we kissed. Before taking each other's clothes off. To compare the lengths of-"

"_**Sherlock**_!" John interrupted.

"Yes, well. We argued about the necessity of 'soft spots,' and John spat in his hand and-"

"That's it, I'm done here. Thank you, gentlemen, but I really don't want to hear any more of this," Lestrade almost fled the room, and John kicked at Sherlock who was still lounging languidly on the floor.

"_What_?" the lanky man pouted, "It's the truth, John."

"Yeah," John sighed, _it sort of was_.


	2. Chapter 5 - Let's Sit with no Clothes on

**Saturday, 12:24PM**

"Your turn," John said and leaned back against the wall. It was hot and stuffy in the room, and the drinking had not helped. _Stupid_, he thought.

Sherlock contemplated the bottle pointing at him and looked at John across the small room. He could see the doctor was feeling uneasy. He kept pulling at his collar and rolling up his sleeves. _It _was_ quite hot in here_, the detective decided, though the purple silk quite comfortably cooled his overheated body. The candle flickered. _This room was much too small to burn candles in anyway. It was a waste of oxygen. And John would appreciate the dark when he was taking his clothes off._ Sherlock did not mind being naked, but he knew John had a problem with it. _Anyway, the state would be temporary. And John would feel better in the silk shirt._

"Let's swap clothes," Sherlock said and John stared, "Why?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"No," John refused and crossed his arms, but Sherlock gave him a scolding look and reached out for the candle.

"_Sherlock_," John whispered angrily, "Leave it on." _I want to see what you're up_ _to_, he wanted to add.

_Too late_. Sherlock's fingers had crushed the poor flame, and John muttered that he couldn't see.

"Nor can I. We'll just feel our way, _ow_," he had touched the hot wax.

_The room had seemed bigger a minute ago_, Sherlock thought, unbuttoning. In the other corner he could hear John take his denims off and then struggle with his shirt.

"Need help?" Sherlock offered and was met with an inspired collection of curses and a dejected, "if you don't mind". So Sherlock did the best he could to get John's shirt off in one piece before tugging at his t-shirt.

"No," the doctor hissed and grabbed Sherlock's wrists. The other man's skin was damp, but cool.

"You're soaked in sweat, John. You'll catch a cold," the detective reasoned, and John let him take his shirt, one hand brushing Sherlock's thigh in the process. John frowned and kept his hands tucked to his sides. The other one was completely naked.

"Where are your clothes?" he asked and Sherlock stepped back, "Over there, I think, _ah_," he had stepped on something sharp and solid. _The wooden box_! His foot hurt, so he decided to settle on the floor.

"I can't see them. And I'm not sure whose these are," he felt for some items of clothing, knowing exactly whose they were, "I'll just rephrase. Let's sit with no clothes on."

"You're lucky I can't see you," John muttered, "I'd kill you if I could."

"You've seen me naked before," Sherlock huffed, "And there's nothing about you that I haven't got myself." _Except that you're far more attractive_, John added silently.

"I suppose I should take that as a compliment," the doctor smiled instead.


	3. Chapter 4 - Incurably Romantic

**Saturday, 11:57PM**

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock said quietly, "that was … _unfair_."

"No, it's … _fine_," John answered and added, "just don't mention it to anyone."

Sherlock nodded, but he felt his heart fall.

"You wanted to know why," he resumed.

"_Hm_?" John was lost, then he remembered his previous question.

"You _do_ have ideas," the detective smiled, "the most prominent one being 'Sherlock is asexual'. _Good reasoning_. I've never given you any reason to believe otherwise. As a doctor, you're wondering if I would have been born this way. Or if it's psychological and the result of some traumatic experience. _Like rape_. Hence the tendency to self-harm. The substance-abuse. The mood-swings. You're torn between two diagnoses. If I _were_ asexual, it would be _very_ easy for me to manipulate people. Seduce them into telling me what I need to know to solve my cases. I would not become emotionally attached. I would just use them and drop them once the case was solved. _Oh, that would be cruel, wouldn't it_? But what if I were _dysfunctional_? _Capable of emotion, but incapable of performing_. I wouldn't have relationships because I'd feel ashamed. _Ah_, and then there's the idea of me being gay. _Hmm_, somehow you imagine me as the passive type, _now, don't give me that look_," Sherlock grinned at his friend who stared in horror at the deductions, "it's a perfectly valid conclusion. You _know_ me, John. You know how much I loathe inaction. I can't sit still, I need puzzles, challenges, I need work. Give me problems, give me cases. I can't _not_ act. Normally, a person like me would need to slow down once in a while. Eat, sleep, copulate. But not on my own accounts. I would want to be persuaded, ordered to do these things. So in a relationship, I would be the submissive partner. Tempting, tantalizingly attractive, but infuriatingly passive. Because I would love to tease until being claimed. Owned. _Taken_." His gaze challenged John, who shook his head, "That's not what I think, _well, it is,_ but … this is not about what _I_ think. This is _you_ wondering if there's something wrong with _you_. You do care about what people believe. You've just proven it. I did not want to hear your deductions of what I might or might not think of you. I just asked you why you didn't do sex."

"_So_?" Sherlock sulked.

"You haven't answered," the gentle doctor smiled, at which Sherlock sneered.

"I haven't met the right person yet," he said. _God, that sounded so commonplace_.

"You don't need the right person to try sex with," John argued, and Sherlock frowned, "In fact, 85% of all people choose the _wrong_ person for their first time. We all got over it. You should give it a try. Most people would-"

"Yes, but I'm not 'most people,' am I?" Sherlock spat, "I don't want to 'give it a try' and be _wrong_. I want to be _safe_, and I want to be _loved_."

John smiled. He would never have thought of Sherlock as of the romantic type.

"To me, sex is a powerful tool to destroy people. Most people who know your weaknesses would sooner or later hold them against you. I can't risk that. It's dangerous to trust somebody that far. I don't trust people easily. It's because they usually don't trust me either. They're scared, John, scared I might hurt them, expose them, laugh at them. And you know the irony of it? I'm just like them."

"You don't trust anybody," John's voice was sad, and Sherlock breathed deeply before admitting that he trusted John.

"So you'd have sex with me," John meant it as a jest, but when he saw Sherlock's serious face, he gulped, "_really_?"

"Does that shock you?"

"No," John felt flattered, "no, it doesn't."


	4. Chapter 3 - Butterflies

**Saturday, 11:36PM**

"So you've never had sex," John concluded and Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Why did John care_? _He always claimed that he was not gay, continuously corrected people about their 'arrangement'. And still he kept asking the same question over and over again. _

"Define 'having sex,' John," Sherlock sighed, and the doctor blushed, "Well, _you know_, having it off with someone." He was met with a cold, unnerved stare.

"Alright, I should … probably take that back," John muttered, but Sherlock watched him with growing amusement.

"I _experimented_," he tested, "if that's what you wanted to hear. On both sexes - if you must know. The results were less stimulating than expected."

John nodded. _Experimented. Whatever that meant_.

"Though usually people limit sexual contacts to the act of penetration. Anal, oral, v-"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock, I'm familiar with them," John interrupted, "I know what 'having sex' means."

"_Ah_," Sherlock smiled triumphantly, "_you_ belong to _that group_, too. Sorry, have to disappoint you then."

John stared at his flatmate, who idly waved his hand in his direction, "I have never penetrated anybody. Nor have I _been_ penetrated. And that condition includes _any_ orifice of the body."

_Nonono_, John thought, _I don't want to hear this_.

"So you've never had sex?" he heard himself ask again.

"No," Sherlock almost shouted.

"_Why_?" John just could not understand it. _How had a good-looking bloke like Sherlock managed to turn 35 without ever getting laid_? _Why_?

"That'd be another question, wouldn't it?"

John nodded and spun the bottle toward Sherlock, who bit his lip and stared at the wall, thinking. For a while they just sat there.

"I've never been kissed," Sherlock stated, his expression unreadable. John nodded at the revelation.

"I dare _you_," the detective added, and John knew what the dare would be before the other spoke.

"Kiss me."

-o-

"Alright," John sat up and crawled across the narrow space, "For the sake of the game."

"Of course," Sherlock replied arrogantly.

And then John brushed his lips against Sherlock's in a feathered kiss. The detective sat frozen, his thoughts racing. _Was he supposed to do something_? _Like put his arms around the other man_? _Kiss back_? _But how_? _So far, this was nice_, he found. Someone else's lips on his. _Maybe if he-_

Sherlock opened his lips just a tiny fraction, the motion drawing John closer, and a small sound escaped his lips. _This was … good_.

-o-

And then it was over, and John, red as a beetroot, fled back into his corner of the closet, leaving Sherlock to the contemplation of butterflies.


	5. Chapter 2 - Perineal Irritations

**Saturday, 11:09PM**

"Tell me a medical truth," Sherlock demanded and John squeezed his eyes shut. _God, what did Sherlock expect_? He did not exactly feel like explaining highly scientific problems right now. In fact, John was not sure if he even remembered how to use a scalpel. He would opt for something easy.

"Well, you know what they say about guys with long feet?"

Sherlock shot him an icy look, and John realized that he was moving onto dangerous ground.

"Yeah, well, any man's foot is as long as the span between his wrist and his elbow," John said, and the detective frowned. _This was not what John had wanted to say in the first place_. He knew the saying, and, based on his observations, there was an undeniable correlation of the length of a foot and the length of an erect penis. However, there seemed to be no significant difference in the size of flaccid penises. Unless, you put temperature into the equation. Sherlock wondered why John had changed the topic. _Why would genitals make a doctor feel uneasy_?

Sherlock took of his shoes and, with determination, removed his socks, too.

"What are you doing?"

"Isn't that obvious?"

John stared at Sherlock in horror, and the detective smirked, "I want to verify."

"Oh," John sighed with relief, and watched Sherlock place his left foot against his right arm, before repeating the act with the other foot.

"_Hmm_," he hummed, "what about you?" He nodded at John's feet, and after some words of strict refusal, John gave in and removed his shoes and socks as well. Gracelessly, he tried to imitate his friends movements who watched, intrigued.

"Interesting," Sherlock chuckled, and John frowned. He did not like being laughed at.

"You look funny," Sherlock made things worse, and John huffed that by making him attempt to bend his body ridiculously and failing, the other had touched a soft spot.

"You get turned on by touching your feet," Sherlock wondered and narrowed his eyes.

"_No_," John blushed, "no, I think what you've got in mind are _hot spots_, sensitive areas of your body, like your nipples, or loins, or perineum. In your case, it'd probably be your scalp, what with stimulating that bloody brain of yours. Soft spots are … _weaknesses_, things one would rather nobody knew about. I'm not exactly a contortionist, Sherlock. I know I probably made a right fool of myself, and you had nothing better in mind than laugh at me. Well, _thank you_!"

"I wasn't laughing at you," Sherlock retorted, crossly. John folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, his posture screaming out, _go on, humour me_.

"_Nipples_?" Sherlock stroked his chest and John could not help but notice the hard little buds stand out against the thin fabric of his shirt. _Alright, he got_ that, the doctor thought, and Sherlock put one hand in his groin, "_Ah_ - I _see_."

There was a tense silence until Sherlock opened his mouth again, "Where's my p-"

"_**No**_! Sherlock, just _**no**_," John shook his head, "You google it, and you find out about it at home. _In your room_. Preferably when I'm out."


	6. Chapter 1 - A Bad Year for Fine Wine

**Saturday, 10:25PM**

"Bored, _BORED_, John," Sherlock moaned and resumed pacing up and down the cupboard. They had been in there for less than half an hour, and already, Sherlock was feeling trapped and cornered. Lestrade and his men were waiting next door. John and Sherlock were supposed to witness the murderous attack in their confinement. Of course, they were allowed no lights, and they had agreed on one big candle between them. And then they had sat down and waited – until Sherlock had started pacing about fifteen minutes ago.

"Why don't you do anything?" John hissed, "Search the cupboard, break some things, you know?"

Sherlock looked around but there was not much of interest in there, "There's just books and skiing equipment, John," he dove into a cluttered corner and resurfaced with a wooden box, "Hah!"

"Thank God," John blew out some air, and Sherlock sat down cross-legged with a smile spreading across his pale face. He looked like a kid at Christmas, John found and smiled, too.

"This is a collector's box. Big enough to hold two bottles of wine. Claret, I suppose. Collectors usually go for red wines. This box was issued in 1951. Mahogany. Hinges are hand-forged. This is quality carpentry. The branding has faded but is still recognizable. Any wine fancier would thirst for this – not literally, though. 1951 was a disastrous year for French wines. Almost all of them turned sour. But collectors keep things. They'd never drink them," the detective had attempted to pick the lock all the while he was talking and it was now giving way. John sat up to catch a glimpse of the shiny bottles, "_Voilà_. _Pauillac_ or _Margaux_, doctor?"

"You can't expect me to drink them?"

"No?" Sherlock smiled wickedly and used his Swiss knife to open the first bottle. He quickly uncorked the second and handed it to John, who took it with a sigh.

"This might be regarded as bad style, but – _sur ce, à la tienne, mon ami_," Sherlock lifted the bottle to his lips, and John muttered, "whatever," but followed suit.

**-o-**

**Saturday, 10:42PM**

"I might be sick, Sherlock," John burped and held out 'his' bottle to the detective whilst reaching out for the Margaux. He swayed slightly but beheld that Sherlock was more than a little inebriated himself.

"This one's nicer," Sherlock agreed and held on to it, sneering at the Pauillac bottle, "I think it is safe to assume that 1951 **was** a bad year for Bordeaux."

**-o-**

**Saturday, 10:56PM**

"We could play a game," Sherlock suggested weighing the bottle in his right hand.

John nodded. The wine had made him feel sleepy, but the younger man was beginning to get on his nerves already. _God, they had only been in here for_ -John checked his watch- _fifty minutes! This was going to be a long night._

"What game?"

"How about this highly acclaimed pre-pubescent bottle game?"

"'Truth or Dare'?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"You expect me to play 'Spin the Bottle'? With _you_? In a closet? Drunk on vintage wine?"

"I'd always assumed that a certain level of intoxication was anticipated," Sherlock grinned mischievously, adding, "Why would our surroundings be relevant?"

"Have you _ever_ played 'Truth or Dare'?" Sherlock merely raised one eyebrow, and John smiled. He had not expected otherwise.

"I _do_ believe we are quite safe in here," the detective stated the obvious, "what could you possibly dare me with that I wouldn't be able to deduce anyway?"

Now it was John's turn to roll his eyes.

"_Ah_," the genius' face lit up, "you afraid I might dare _you_ and put you into a compromising situation. Do be assured, I am not planning anything … _salacious_."


End file.
